Sam grinned as he closed the lid, locked the latch, and began the tedious task of sealing the false floorpan again. “At least now, it will finally reach its intended destination.”
Climbing out of the car, Virginia’s back straightened with sudden alarm. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
The three of them tip-toed toward the side of the barn. As they broached the hedge Sam heard boots crunch pebbles, and saw the flash of yellow lettering on the back of a blue bulletproof vest. He motioned with his hand.
All three of them stopped, and instantly dropped to the ground.
Taking cover in the hedge, they watched silently as multiple federal agents surrounded the house below them. From their vantage point above, Sam could count twelve agents on the northern side in standard covering formation, at the back door.
He watched as six prepared to insert themselves at the back of the house. They wore full black tactical gear with balaclavas, and were armed with M5 assault rifles. Two men on point, one held a door ram, the second man covering with a pump-action shotgun.
Sam indicated to Tom and Virginia to retreat to the barn staying low.
“Anyone up for a drive in the country?” Sam whispered to Tom and Virginia as they made it back to the relative safety of the barn.
“Better make it quick!” Tom answered, climbing in to the passenger seat of the Tudor.
Virginia pressed the automatic door button – the sliding doors opened at the back of the barn. She quickly climbed into the front passenger seat, while Tom took his position, reclining in the saloon style lounge at the back.
In the driver’s seat, Sam switched on the ignition. Once more, the Flathead V-8 motor roared to life. He shifted into first gear, turned the wheel to full lock, and revved the motor hard, power-sliding the tail end of the giant car around in a neat 180 degree turn. He gunned it again, squealing the car across the polished concrete floor and out the back of the barn.
As they tore away, Sam watched in the rear-view mirror as two FBI agents in blue jackets burst through the side door and turned to see the Ford as the three fugitives bounced away in a stream of torn up dirt, mud, and stones.
The driveway behind the barn opened on to a trail across the northern side of the property, which led into the woods. Despite the summer weather, the fire access trail was muddy and slippery, with rocks and jutting tree roots that made the going very rough.
Sam wrestled hard with the steering wheel as it thrashed away from him. The Ford’s rock-hard suspension was in danger of giving all three passengers internal injuries as they raced northward away from the sprawling lake house.
Sam looked again in the tiny rear-view mirror and saw Tom stretched out sideways across the saloon-style leather seats, while next to him, Virginia was holding on for dear life as the Tudor skidded, jumped and swayed its way through the densely wooded pine forest.
“Where are we going to go?” she yelled to him over the roar of the motor.
“Minneapolis Airport.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Minneapolis Airport, Minnesota
Sam pulled into the service lane that ran alongside the airfield, where the juggernaut Boeing BC-17 Globemaster III dominated the landscape. It dwarfed the rest of the airport parking and taxi traffic. The next biggest was a Boeing 737 passenger jet being used by a budget carrier, which at 102 feet long, looked like a nervous school bus cowering beside a hulking freighter.
The airlifter jet was a civilian version of the ‘Moose’ used by the US Air Force for heavy hauling sorties. It was 174 feet long, with a wingspan of 169 feet. It could deliver a payload of 77 tons on a dirt runway 3500 feet in length thanks to the brute force generated by the two Pratt and Whitney jet engines on each wing. It could even make a K-turn with its reversing function.
Sam pulled up at the security gate designated specifically for cargo carriers. A portly uniformed attendant at the security gate glanced at them. “You must be Mr. Sam Reilly?”
“That’s me,” Sam replied.
“The captain of the Globemaster advised me you’d be turning up with a classic car.” The attendant appraised the historic vehicle, admiration in his hazel eyes. “She’s a beauty.”
“Thanks.”
“You must be in a hurry.” He opened the gate and waved him through. “Have a good flight.”
Behind them, Sam heard the wail of police sirens. He glanced at the rearview mirror. There were more than a dozen police cars and FBI vehicles racing toward them. The attendant’s eyes darted to the small army of FBI vehicles, and back to Sam. Recognition suddenly penetrating his gaze.
“Hey, wait…” the attendant shouted.
Sam jammed his foot on the gas pedal and the car lurched forward.
He spun across the service lane and onto the taxiway. Sam raced past the control tower, along runway 12 L. Past a Boeing 737 that was stopped at the intersection with runway 22, waiting for a small private plane to land.
In his rearview mirror he spotted the flashing lights now making their pursuit on the runway, a quarter of a mile behind them.
“We’ve got company,” Tom said, rather unnecessarily.
“I see them!”
Sam gunned the accelerator and the Ford Tudor lurched forward with surprising ferocity. He glanced up at the sky where a private single engine Cessna was coming in to land from the north-east. He swung the wheel hard left, turning into runway 22.
Along the final third of runway 22, the Globemaster III started to move northeast, toward the end of the airstrip. The Cessna’s pilot had already spotted it. He or she was set to land well past the taxiing behemoth – right where Sam’s Ford Tudor was now racing at nearly eighty miles an hour.
The coachwork on the old car started to rattle.
Wide-eyed, Virginia stared at the Cessna approaching for landing. “Sam!”
“I see it! I see it!” Sam shouted, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and his foot hard to the floor.
Its single propeller blade spun in a blur, as the Cessna raced head on toward them.
“For God’s sake, Sam, move over!”
“Why?” Sam asked, with a sardonic grin on his face. “We’re heavier than he is, that gives us the right of way.”
Virginia looked at him, her otherwise soft face, suddenly distorted with fear.
An instant later, the Ford Tudor passed beneath the Cessna’s landing strip gear, the little craft safely landing twenty feet behind their transport and their car.
Virginia screamed. “You knew!”
Sam shrugged. “I had a pretty good idea.”
Behind them, sirens blaring, lights flashing, at least ten Federal Agent cars raced to meet them.
Ahead, the Globemaster III lowered its massive rear cargo door. Sparks flew from the steel boarding ramp, where metal struck the runway.
Sam lined up with the ramp, easily matching the jet’s current speed of eighty-five miles per hour.
Virginia tense, her mouth open, and her eyes round with disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”
“Sure, he is,” Tom answered, comfortably lounging in the passenger seat. “Have you ever known Sam to be anything but serious?”
“Yeah, what could go wrong?” Sam asked. “It’s not like this is a war zone. You and I did this before in Afghanistan, didn’t we?”
“Right,” Virginia admitted. “But the cargo aircraft was stationary at the time!”
Sam glanced at his speedometer. It read: 90 miles an hour. “Technically, we’re only slightly traveling only slightly faster than the Globemaster, so we’re basically stationary.”
The Ford Tudor edged closer to the dragging tail ramp. The wheels touched metal and the Tudor launched itself into the Globemaster. Sam jammed on the brakes, pulling up at the end of the empty cargo bay.
Sam yanked up the Tudor’s handbrake, opened the door, and quickly hopped out. Crossing around the front of the car, he opened the passenger door, for Virginia and Tom to climb out.
The huge t
ailgate, which had been slowly moving, closed tight.
Tom slammed the door shut, then the three of them walked to the side of the monstrous cargo bay, and dropped onto the bench seats there.
The loadmaster strode in. Nodding to the others, he raised a hand to Sam in a friendly greeting of relaxed familiarity. He immediately began securing the car with a set of fixed chains. Sam felt the aircraft brake hard as its pilot reached the end of runway 22, in preparation of making a sharp turn, ready for takeoff.
Virginia turned to him. “Whose aircraft is this?”
Sam said, “It belongs to my father’s shipping company. He lets me borrow a little freight space now and then when I need it. It was on its return from Alaska after dropping off some engine components for one of his freighters in dry dock at Dutch Harbor. When I spoke to Elise earlier, I asked her to arrange to have it meet us here. I told her to let them know we might have unwanted guests.”
The four Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofan engines increased pitch to a constant whine in preparation for takeoff. The entire aircraft began to shudder, as it dragged against its locked brakes.
Sam clicked his seatbelt and used part of the fuselage rigging for support.
Virginia shook her head. It was all a game to him. They were being chased by the FBI and dangerously entangled with a violent takeover by organized crime, and he was grinning.
With a lurch, he felt the pilot release the brakes. The monstrous cargo carrier launched forward at a rapid pace. Unburdened by anything other than the Ford Tudor, and three extra passengers, the Globemaster III moved with the spritely ease of a much smaller aircraft.
Sam felt the nose lift. Moments later the entire aircraft effortlessly soared up into the air.
One of the flight engineers approached the cargo hold. His eyes darted between, Sam, Tom, and Virginia – taking them all in at a glance, and fixing on Sam. “Sam Reilly?”
“Yeah.”
“The captain wants a word with you.”
“What about?” Sam asked.
The flight engineer sighed. “We have a problem.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Sam raced up into the cockpit of the massive cargo aircraft.
The captain greeted Sam with familiarity, but his open salvo was, “We have a serious problem.”
“So I heard.” Sam gripped the side of the third seat in the cockpit – the engineer’s chair – to brace himself, while he ran his eyes across the important instruments. The aircraft looked stable in the air, for now at least. “What’s going on?”
“The control tower has requested that we return immediately.”
Sam said, “That was to be expected.”
The pilot’s brow narrowed. “Sam, how long have I known you now, fifteen years?”
Sam nodded. “Sixteen.”
“In that time, I’ve learned that your word is like an ironclad contract, as solid as it is unbreakable.” The pilot met his eye. “I just broke a number of laws just by taking off, not to mention nearly killing some FBI agents who tried to stop me. I did so based on your word that the FBI were currently working for organized crime and you’ve got with you, the only evidence to end their entire operation.”
“That’s right,” Sam said.
“I believe you. Even so, when I land, I’m going to be arrested, lose my wings, and my freedom. So, what do you suggest I do about the control tower’s request for us to return to Minneapolis?”
“Nothing.” Sam shrugged, maintaining his characteristic stance of insouciance. “What are they going to do about it?”
The pilot bit his lower lip. “Well, apparently three F16s from have been scrambled from the 148th Fighter Wing out at the Minnesota Air National Guards. They should be here within a few minutes to escort us back down to the ground.”
Sam expelled a deep breath of air. “That will be Good.”
“Good, what?” The pilot looked confused. “How is that good?”
“While the F16s are on our tail, we’re less likely to be attacked by the people we’re really running from.”
Sam pulled out his cell phone and began to casually scroll through it.
Jaw tight, the captain said between gritted teeth, “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing. Keep going, continue on your flight plan.”
The pilot’s brows drew down. “And what do I say when our country’s finest men and women with really expensive jets tell us to land?”
Sam continued to indifferently scroll through his cell, as though he was finding a number to arrange a coffee date. “I’ll sort it out.”
The pilot, red faced from fear, his raising blood pressure, or perhaps helpless fury, the pilot slowly, clearly enunciated, “Did you hear a word I said, Sam?”
Distracted, Sam looked up from his cell phone. “What?”
“I asked what the hell you suggest I tell the F16 fighter pilots when they ask me to land?”
Sam grinned. “Tell them to wait one minute while I finish speaking to their boss.”
The captain’s eyes darted toward the radar screen. Three small green blips could be seen entering their airspace, moving ominously toward his vessel. “We’ve got company!”
Sam pressed the call button. It reached the message bank. He left a short message, asking the person to ring back as soon as they got the message.
The three F16s took their escort position around them.
The pilot shot Sam a concerned look. “They’ve requested we return to Minneapolis.”
“Did you politely decline?” Sam asked.
“Did you notice their array of armaments?” the pilot replied.
“All right,” Sam said, equably. “Tell them you’ll need a minute to program your landing vectors.”
“Okay.” The pilot exhaled a breath of relief, and began inputting the return flight details.
Sam said, “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I need you to drag this out as long as possible.”
“Why?” the pilot asked.
Sam said, “I’m still waiting on a call.”
At three minutes, the captain’s face darkened further as a message came over his headphones. He turned to face Sam directly. “Sir, we’ve been officially given two minutes to turn around and make our descent into Minneapolis.”
“All right. I want you to wait until 119 seconds have passed before beginning your turning circle. Then you’d better take us back to Minneapolis.”
The captain nodded, visibly relieved.
At the two-minute mark, the pilot made a gentle bank to the left, to make a 180 degree turn back to the Minneapolis airport.
The captain mumbled under his breath as they made their final approach, “There’s a hell of a lot of FBI agents back at the airport… we’re about to be in a world of trouble.”
Sam’s cell phone started to ring.
He picked it up. His lips curled upward into a winning smile. “Yes, madam Secretary, I did call. You’re right, the situation is urgent. You see, I might need your help…”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Duluth International Airport
Sam and his friends sat inside the gracious Ford Tudor motorcar. The lovely lady had been the best of her time.
The Boeing BC-17 Globemaster III landed with surprising ease along Runway 27, Duluth’s longest landing strip. The monstrous cargo carrier applied its reverse thrust and used up every inch of the 10,162 feet of concrete runway. The aircraft immediately taxied, following the three F16s that had been escorting them, into the 148th Fighter Wing – Minnesota Air National Guard’s base, which shared the civilian international airport.
The Globemaster III came to a complete stop.
Over the intercom, Sam heard the pilot say, “All right, Mr. Reilly. We’re now inside the 148th Fighter Wing’s Airbase. I hope you know what you’re doing. Good luck.”
Sam turned around to see Virginia in the front passenger seat and Tom stretched out in the saloon style backseat
. “You might want to buckle your seatbelts.”
Tom said, “We don’t have any seatbelts.”
Sam raised his hands, palm upward, shooting him a devil-may-care shrug. “What are you going to do?”
The flight crew removed the vehicle tiedowns and opened the massive hydraulic cargo tail door. Sam pushed his foot down firm on the heavy 1920s style clutch, pushed the gearstick into reverse, removed the handbrake and accelerated down the steel ramp onto the tarmac. He swung the wheel around, changed into first gear, and headed toward the gated guardhouse toward the end of the 178th Fighter Wing Airbase.
Two soldiers stepped out to greet him. Sam slowed the car to a stop, his eyes glancing over the two men. He recognized the blue beret of an Air Force Security Officer on one of the men. The other gentleman was wearing full Service Dress Uniform with the insignia of a silver eagle dominating the Great Seal of the United States across his left chest, indicating that he was an Air Force Colonel.
“Sir,” Sam addressed the Colonel.
“You must be Sam Reilly,” the Colonel replied coolly. Without waiting for a response, he said, “I don’t know what your connection to the Secretary of Defense is, but all I can say is that you have friends in some very high places. I have questions – many extremely sensible questions. Despite the fact that the FBI made an official request to have my F16s locate your Globemaster and bring you back to the Minneapolis Airport – I’ve been ordered to let you through, no questions asked.”
Sam remained silent. It was a tactical move. Years in the Marines had taught him when to keep his mouth shut.
“Do you have anything to say?” the Colonel asked.
“No, sir.”
“Very well. On your way, son.”
Sam grinned. “Thank you, sir.”
The Air Force Security Officer opened the gate and Sam drove through. Once out of the Airbase, he accelerated hard. The car had been extensively upgraded from its original specifications back in the 1920s to make it a more formidable rum runner during Prohibition. Nearly a hundred years old, it still had plenty of power in its engine.
Virginia asked, “Where are we going?”
The Ironclad Covenant (Sam Reilly Book 10) Page 25
